LITMIR.BIZ

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half-adult, ending up in Indian restaurants, swilling down glasses of Kingfisher lager, showing off, laughing ‘fit to bust’.

      You remember going off to pee one time, almost falling down the steep steps to Avernus, into the reeking, hot basement, realizing you were drunk, staggering, running your dirty hand over the dirty walls to steady yourself. Alien territory, sopping towels lying exhausted on the floor, doors marked successively STAFF, PRIVATE, LADIES, KEEP OUT. A fellow rushing by, throwing out a look of contempt as you were already unzipping, ready for the outpouring. GENTS, it said. And you smelt the urine/disinfectant smell like soup spilt on an oilcloth table cover. You tossed away in disgust from between your lips the half-puffed fag. It fell on the red-tiled floor. You directed a first splash at it to put it out, laughing weakly, then directing all your energy to the hard squirt into the china bowl, in which sodden things lay. You used your penis like a hose, amused to direct it to splash right up the wall. It writhed in your fingers, glad as a puppy for its master’s touch.

      You did not know then that a time would come when you would climb unsteadily down those same stairs, to that same urinal, this time going slowly, hobbling even, the frayed remnant of what you cherished proudly long ago already leaking into your trousers in anticipation and then, when you make it to the sordid bowl, unable to produce anything but an irregular drip. You would lean your arm against the wall and your head against your arm and you would spit into the yellow trail below. You would not be miserable exactly. You would just know that you had run out of spark and spunk and steam, and would be sort of semi-glad of it. But all this awaits you in the future.

      You and all your pals.

      Early in life you saw what old age and its captivities meant. You were fortunate, in that respect, to escape.

       You mean I will not become a prisoner in my old age?

      That is not my meaning exactly.

       What do you mean?

      Let us continue with your timelife story.

       You worry me. What do you mean?

      No, you do not worry. That’s just a figure of speech. You will become old but never reach extreme old age.

      You had a girlfriend at this period, as young as you but with plenty of female assurance. Her name was Gale Roberts, a rather cinematic name which bestowed glamour on her. Her mother was a big, hearty woman, who liked to praise things in general. She called you ‘sensible’. When she despatched you and Gale to visit her Uncle Norman and his wife, Tamsin, she described their tragedy in enthusiastic terms.

      ‘She’s totally incapacitated, poor darling thing! She bears her misfortune so nobly. And my brother – well, Norman’s such a sweetie-pie! Of course, an absolute slave to Tammy, an absolute slave, he does everything, but everything for her. As you’ll see, my dear.’

      The visit proved a memorable one.

      Tamsin Roberts had ‘broken her back’, as the phrase had it, when crossing a road in France and encountering a slow-moving vehicle. She suffered complex fractures of several vertebrae. Both Robertses were in their early fifties; to you they seemed vastly old. They lived in a small terraced house, the upper floor of which they let out.

      When you rang the bell, Norman peeped out before nodding and letting you both in.

      ‘Just doing a spot of cleaning,’ he said with a laugh that affected at once to laugh at himself and to explain the floral apron he was wearing. Norman was a small, dry man with a sandy moustache and a large red nose. He clutched a yellow duster.

      Tamsin was confined to an armchair in what had been their dining room, where she could gaze out at the small garden. Now she got her meals on a tray. Her husband, Gale’s uncle, looked after her, doing everything for her; dressing her, undressing her, shopping and cooking for her.

      Somehow they remained cheerful. The radio was always on. They kept two cats, Mike and Snippets, both tabbies. The cats hung about in picturesque positions on items of furniture, the one on the piano, the other on a side table. When they moved, they moved carefully about the little crowded room, full of its small tables, its china figures and its potted plants.

      Gale presented the Roberts with a cake her mother had baked. They chatted of small things. Tamsin spoke in a flat voice, but appeared cheerful enough. Norman said he pushed her up the street and back in her wheelchair every day, when all the neighbours came out to speak to them.

      ‘What a lot they are,’ said Tamsin, looking slightly humorous as she referred to the neighbours.

      As you and Gale were about to leave, Norman ushered you out, saying, ‘Careful how you go. Mind the ironing board. I’ve just got to iron one of Tammy’s nighties. I’ll just shut the kitchen door. We love the cats so much; we don’t want them to escape. We never let them go outside.’

      So off the two of you went, carefree and skipping up the street, Gale swinging her mother’s wicker shopping basket. You were getting to the stage when you might dare to kiss Gale.

      ‘So what do you make of that pair of old crocks?’ Gale asked.

      ‘Your uncle’s very good with Tamsin. Life can’t be much fun for him.’

      Gale sat down on a low wall, adjusting her dress so that first you saw a lot of thigh and then none. ‘I reckon uncle enjoys being prison warden.’ She spoke carelessly.

      ‘Prison warden? How do you make that out?’ You stood in front of her, your trousers all but touching her knees. ‘I thought he was her slave. Isn’t that the general idea?’

      She tossed a lock of dark hair from her eyes. It immediately fell back into its original position, its lowest strands to rest on her rosy cheek. ‘You heard what he said – about the cats, I mean. He loves the cats but is afraid they may escape. So they are stuck for ever in the house. Could be he feels the same about her.’

      ‘You mean he feels Tamsin might escape?’

      ‘Maybe he used to. You can see how insecure he is. He’s glad she is stuck in that chair, unable to get away from him.’

      Such a concept had not occurred to you. The novelty, the secrecy of it, thrilled you in some way. ‘But what does she feel?’

      Gale sighed and looked up at you with a contemplative air. ‘Work it out for yourself. Could be she likes being a prisoner. She was always a bit valetudinarian, even when she was young – like her mum.’

      ‘So you’re saying they get on okay?’

      ‘I’m saying it may not be the way it looks, with them both being miserable. Just could be it even suits them.’

      ‘But you can’t ask them –’

      She reached out and touched your hand. ‘Of course you can’t ask them, silly!’

      ‘What a bugger that you can’t ask them straight out.’

      But your mind was not really on that mystery of human relationships; it centred more on Gale’s pretty, moist lips. You leant forward, clutched her shoulders and kissed her.

      The world turned to gold dust about you.

      You often wondered what sort of person Valerie had been in her short life. After the visit to the Roberts’ house, you found reason to wonder about yourself. You had gone on this rather boring – as you initially saw it – visit to an invalid, simply to be near Gale. You were well aware of the life of the senses, even if, at that early age, you stood as yet high and dry on its shores. You were also aware of another life, one that might hinder or distract you from the sensual oceans represented by the tepid lake of Gale Roberts, and that was one to which she herself had directed your attention: the life of human motivation, so cunning, so unfathomable.

      For which way had it been in the invalid’s semi-detached home? Was old Norman the slave or the captor? Was she the dominatrix or the prisoner? Only slowly, as you sat upstairs in your bedroom, gazing blankly at the painting

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